Mindfield
Ficlet to get the writing juices going...sorta.
Paris, France
1980's
"Come on! Come on! You are no good to me dead." The hard slap sent the side of my jaw jarring against the ground. Had I had it in me, I would have laughed with the absurdity of it all. A man. A rather beautifully reserved man, knelt by my side and, horrified at the blood spreading over my dress from two bullet wounds, shook me first and then tried to slap me conscious before applying pressure to my wounds or checking my pulse. Or rather, was it because he checked my pulse first, that he panicked and slapped me. No signs of life. No breath. No heartbeat, no pulse. Just two bullets holes and lots of blood. "Come on, come on, come." He whispered in a panicked haze as he lightly slapped my cheeks again.
Now this is getting only slightly too annoying. I thought. But I did not move. I had my orders. And as a loyal Tremere subject to the new Regent of Paris, I carried out my orders with the timeliness of a Swiss watch. Especially since that new Regent was my maker. I was precise, efficient and, most importantly, blindly loyal. My initial treachery--more than a century previous--had only made me more determined to please, more motivated to climb back up the pyramid of power. And I was almost there. The gun he had shot me with was hardly an arms length away and he recoiled from it like he would from a snake. "What...what did I do? What did I do?" His lips pulled sideways and drew back, revealing pearly teeth that seemed too big for his mouth. The cry that was strangling him hardly made it out of his throat as the ball within grew larger and larger. I knew this because I kept my eyes open so that I could watch. I wanted to huff out in indignation. He wept for himself. No one wept for me. Not when I died. Never. And I suppose that was all well and good. I don't mind inspiring tears but I much rather be the cause of them. And I surely was the reason for these big tears and strangled cries. He could not understand what in our argument had resulted in his rage but it grew hotter and hotter until I lay dead.
His hands began to shake as he envisioned the precarious balance that his political career was shifting towards. As he bemoaned his situation I let myself wonder how it would be like to be dead. Really dead. To have the fear of time over ones head and to feel the cold set into your body as you tried not to take your last slow breath. What was it like to know that everything, absolutely everything was about to cease and give into blackness? Peaceful? Desperate? Horrifying?
Am I really that bored to be thinking of this?
Oh, you silly human. What are you doing now? He got up and hastily ran in one direction, making for a towel to press against my wounds. But when he came back, his eyes danced with a million ideas. He met my cold dead eyes and shivered, dropping the towel to the ground. For a moment he truly looked like a killer, stripped from the veneer of humanity. Now, now he looked more like me. A survivor. Someone willing to move the heavens from the sky to ensure ones own survival. Except that he was out of practice and out of luck. Still, I could see his eyes move from the gun to the bathroom and from the bathroom to the kitchen. He was considering getting rid of me somehow. I am impressed.
He swallowed nervously and grabbed the gun and the towel off the floor. As expected, he wiped his prints off the gun and tossed it onto the couch. And then, as expected, he fled.
It was only when I heard the audible click of the door closing that I sighed and lifted myself off the floor.
It was only later the next evening that I reappeared unseen at an embassy party and invited myself into the room that the Ministre de la Defense would be enjoying himself in with another girl. Blond, this time. I should know. I picked her out. His hands were still slightly shaking it seemed when he threw open the door to adjourn to the room with his new acquisition. But then he saw me. I was smiling brightly at him. I even wore the same dress. Washed, of course, but I kept the bullet holes for dramatic appeal.
"Ministre Bargeron. You remember, me. Oui?" Oh, yes, of course he did. His eyes grew wide. I lightly twirled the gun he used on me in my hand. The blond woman I had conscripted for my cause silently removed herself from the situation as I had so kindly requested her to once she brought the minister here.
"You...you..." He said breathlessly. "You're dead. I saw it with my own eyes."
"Hm. Yes, it does appear that you have killed me. Actually," I said lazily letting my voice trail off for a moment, "the murder is on tape. Pin hole camera." I added. "You should be more careful."
"But-you are-"
"Right here?" I whispered. And I was gone.
Madness, it appears, settles within a mind very effortlessly. It took only a few visits to make the ministre's mind malleable to the wants of the Tremere. Never assume that a man who talks to himself is crazy. He may just be negotiating for his life with the shadows that you cannot see.
Paris, France
1980's
"Come on! Come on! You are no good to me dead." The hard slap sent the side of my jaw jarring against the ground. Had I had it in me, I would have laughed with the absurdity of it all. A man. A rather beautifully reserved man, knelt by my side and, horrified at the blood spreading over my dress from two bullet wounds, shook me first and then tried to slap me conscious before applying pressure to my wounds or checking my pulse. Or rather, was it because he checked my pulse first, that he panicked and slapped me. No signs of life. No breath. No heartbeat, no pulse. Just two bullets holes and lots of blood. "Come on, come on, come." He whispered in a panicked haze as he lightly slapped my cheeks again.
Now this is getting only slightly too annoying. I thought. But I did not move. I had my orders. And as a loyal Tremere subject to the new Regent of Paris, I carried out my orders with the timeliness of a Swiss watch. Especially since that new Regent was my maker. I was precise, efficient and, most importantly, blindly loyal. My initial treachery--more than a century previous--had only made me more determined to please, more motivated to climb back up the pyramid of power. And I was almost there. The gun he had shot me with was hardly an arms length away and he recoiled from it like he would from a snake. "What...what did I do? What did I do?" His lips pulled sideways and drew back, revealing pearly teeth that seemed too big for his mouth. The cry that was strangling him hardly made it out of his throat as the ball within grew larger and larger. I knew this because I kept my eyes open so that I could watch. I wanted to huff out in indignation. He wept for himself. No one wept for me. Not when I died. Never. And I suppose that was all well and good. I don't mind inspiring tears but I much rather be the cause of them. And I surely was the reason for these big tears and strangled cries. He could not understand what in our argument had resulted in his rage but it grew hotter and hotter until I lay dead.
His hands began to shake as he envisioned the precarious balance that his political career was shifting towards. As he bemoaned his situation I let myself wonder how it would be like to be dead. Really dead. To have the fear of time over ones head and to feel the cold set into your body as you tried not to take your last slow breath. What was it like to know that everything, absolutely everything was about to cease and give into blackness? Peaceful? Desperate? Horrifying?
Am I really that bored to be thinking of this?
Oh, you silly human. What are you doing now? He got up and hastily ran in one direction, making for a towel to press against my wounds. But when he came back, his eyes danced with a million ideas. He met my cold dead eyes and shivered, dropping the towel to the ground. For a moment he truly looked like a killer, stripped from the veneer of humanity. Now, now he looked more like me. A survivor. Someone willing to move the heavens from the sky to ensure ones own survival. Except that he was out of practice and out of luck. Still, I could see his eyes move from the gun to the bathroom and from the bathroom to the kitchen. He was considering getting rid of me somehow. I am impressed.
He swallowed nervously and grabbed the gun and the towel off the floor. As expected, he wiped his prints off the gun and tossed it onto the couch. And then, as expected, he fled.
It was only when I heard the audible click of the door closing that I sighed and lifted myself off the floor.
It was only later the next evening that I reappeared unseen at an embassy party and invited myself into the room that the Ministre de la Defense would be enjoying himself in with another girl. Blond, this time. I should know. I picked her out. His hands were still slightly shaking it seemed when he threw open the door to adjourn to the room with his new acquisition. But then he saw me. I was smiling brightly at him. I even wore the same dress. Washed, of course, but I kept the bullet holes for dramatic appeal.
"Ministre Bargeron. You remember, me. Oui?" Oh, yes, of course he did. His eyes grew wide. I lightly twirled the gun he used on me in my hand. The blond woman I had conscripted for my cause silently removed herself from the situation as I had so kindly requested her to once she brought the minister here.
"You...you..." He said breathlessly. "You're dead. I saw it with my own eyes."
"Hm. Yes, it does appear that you have killed me. Actually," I said lazily letting my voice trail off for a moment, "the murder is on tape. Pin hole camera." I added. "You should be more careful."
"But-you are-"
"Right here?" I whispered. And I was gone.
Madness, it appears, settles within a mind very effortlessly. It took only a few visits to make the ministre's mind malleable to the wants of the Tremere. Never assume that a man who talks to himself is crazy. He may just be negotiating for his life with the shadows that you cannot see.